


somebody to lie in the dark with

by Amber



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 23:17:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15230172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: What if Jon had gone to stay with Martin instead of Georgie in S3? A brief, domestic interlude.





	somebody to lie in the dark with

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Smithybadger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smithybadger/gifts).



> Plotless domestic fluff for [Cam](http://twitter.com/hedgefruit), who makes so much nice art for this fandom.
> 
> Standard disclaimer: Please don't link this to the creators. Please don't repost my fic on other websites. Transformative works or quotes with a link are fine and you don't need to tell me or ask permission (but I would love to know!)
> 
> Title is from _Waiting for the check to clear_ by Ysra Daley-Ward.

"I cleaned your bathroom," admits Jon.

"Oh," says Martin, sounding a little bewildered. "You didn't have to do that. I mean, great! Thank you, but you really didn't — was it especially dirty? The bathroom."

"No," Jon hastens to reassure him, awkward. "No, no, I simply felt, given you've opened your home to me— I wanted some way to express my gratitude."

"I think most people say thank you," says Martin, and then winces at Jon's expression. "Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean that. You don't have to actually thank me, I mean, anyone would do the same, I'm sure."

Jon gives one single uncharitable laugh, because no. Not anybody would welcome someone they thought might be a murderer just showing up on their doorstep, no possessions but the clothes on their back, in desperate need of somewhere to stay. Martin has always been kind; it's why he was the first person Jon had thought of when Georgie wouldn't answer his calls. It seems stupidly dangerous, to stay with someone still so closely tied to the Institute, but... Martin isn't a murderer. Of that much, at this point, Jon is certain.

"Anyway, I brought home some groceries. I wasn't sure what you liked so it's just the basics, eggs and milk and bread and cheese, but if you have any requests I can duck into the shops on the way home from work tomorrow and —"

"I'm sure it's fine, Martin," Jon interrupts his rambling. "I'm not picky."

"Oh. Okay." Martin smiles, tentative and hopeful. "I thought I'd make spaghetti for dinner?"

"Oh, you cook?" asks Jon.

"I mean. I try to. I _can_ cook, if that's what you mean, just basic stuff mostly. I was a fry cook in Manchester for a bit after I dropped out of school. These days I don't always have the time, with work and all..."

"Yes," says Jon, who also ostensibly knows the recipes his grandmother taught him and yet basically lives off takeout and ready meals, when he remembers to eat at all. "Yes, I know exactly what you mean. It will be nice to eat a home-cooked meal for a change." A pause. "If you'd like a hand—"

"Jon, you just cleaned my bathroom, I hardly expect—"

" _Martin_." They're talking over each other. "Cleaning clears my mind, and it's not as though I have anything else to do. You don't owe me for scrubbing out your shower. Now give me some vegetables to chop so we can get tea on the table before nine."

Martin chuckles sheepishly, perhaps embarrassed at his own clucking, perhaps charmed by the way Jon can make an offer of help sound so vituperous. "Yeah," he agrees. "All right."

"All right," says Jon firmly. Settled.

Martin's kitchen is a little small, so they have to be careful of each other. Jon stands next to the sink and chops vegetables — "You're on onion duty because you wear glasses," Martin tells him — while Martin seasons and fries some mince and gets the pasta started. They manage to only run into each other once, both of them apologizing at the same time.

By the time it's started to come together the kitchen smells good, the way that only meat and garlic and onions can. Jon adds a splash from the box of cheap red cooking wine in the fridge to the tomato sauce, then pours them both half a glass each, adds Sprite to ease the flavor into something sweet. 

Martin's dining table is so small that their knees bump together underneath it. "Sorry," he says for about the tenth time that evening. "Don't normally see a lot of guests here. Most of my furniture is just second hand junk I got when I first moved to London."

"I bought a dining table last year," says Jon. "I was starting to get a decent amount of savings and I thought it would be a responsible, adult purchase." He grimaces. "Bought a couple of pieces of furniture, actually. But then it all seemed so out of place and pointless so I returned it all, went back to what I brought up from Bournemouth."

"Bournemouth, really," says Martin, eyebrows raising, "You? Somehow I wouldn't have expected that. I suppose you do have the posh accent—"

"Ah. Don't, please," says Jon, who hates when people make assumptions based on the way he speaks. "It wasn't the silver spoon lifestyle you're imagining, I promise you."

"Hm," says Martin, but he tries not to talk about money because it can make him unpleasant, he knows that, and he'd rather be nice. Eats his spaghetti instead, and sips his fake prosecco, and changes the subject. 

"When do you think you'll be coming back to work?"

Jon exhales through his nose in bitter amusement. "When I'm not a wanted man," he says darkly. "However long that takes to clear up."

"Elias said we might have to do some statements while you're gone. Pick up the slack."

" _Did_ he." Jon's diction is annoyed. But if he has anything further to say about Elias Bouchard, any suspicions about who really killed Leitner, he's not yet sharing them with Martin. Bad enough he's invading the man's flat like this. Frankly, the less he knows the better.

On the other hand... the assistants taking statements. He doesn't like it — a curl of possessiveness combined with an acute awareness that it's risky, somehow, more than just reading into a tape recorder should be. All the more reason to get this mess sorted out as soon as he can.

"This is nice," he says instead of any of that, and Martin beams.

"Yeah? Well, great. I had a good assistant." He goes a little pink, though maybe it's just the wine. "It's nice to have someone else to cook for. Er, with."

"Yeah," agrees Jon, and it comes out bloody wistful, so he clears his throat immediately after. "Right, well, you'll let me do dishes, I hope."

"You're a guest!" says Martin like he's horrified.

"I'm staying with you for who knows how long, eating your food, using your things, for free," is Jon's rejoinder. "The least I can do is help out around the flat a little."

"Well..." Martin looks a little reluctant, but Jon stays firm. He'd rather insist now than realize later Martin was being polite and Jon has now overstayed his welcome.

"Besides," he says, putting the final nail in the coffin. "I like cleaning. Keeps me focused."

Martin tips his head, considering, and he has jokingly called Jon a workaholic at least once in the past, so hopefully he's thinking of those times and realizing Jon really does prefer having something to do. "All right," he relents finally, "But I'm drying."

Just like that, they fall into a routine: the next night Jon cooks stew with the chuck steak he asks Martin to bring home, and Martin helps, then does the dishes after while Jon dries. After a couple of false starts, they begin to talk about things that aren't work; the first time in months Jon has had so much conversation that didn't relate to the Institute somehow. Martin carries it, of course, nattering away about telemarketers and a man who was rude to him on the Tube and his old friend from Manchester who had been so obsessed with Coronation Street she'd stalked one of the actors, useless nothing talk. Jon hates it, but he's also unspeakably grateful for it, for anything that isn't restless paranoia and the wet copper smell of blood that won't leave the back of his throat no matter how many times he showers and gargles.

It's the best part of his day. During the day, when Martin is at work, Jon works too: does housework; uses the desktop computer to read and research; reads the anonymously delivered statements into the tape recorder. He doesn't tell Martin they're being delivered. Best not to upset him, really. He has it all tucked away by the time Martin comes home, and they go through their domestic routine together, and then Jon reads a copy of The Silmarillion he found on Martin's disturbingly bookless shelves and Martin knits and watches the television. They share a blanket. Martin always says "Well, I'm knackered," at about ten, even if he isn't, so that they can fold out the couch into Jon's bed.

Jon wonders if he was really so lonely that even living with Martin can give him such warm feelings of companionship. It doesn't really occur to him that maybe they just get on well outside of work until the nightmare.

When he wakes, he wakes with a start, and it's certainly not the first time but there's not usually hands on him all the way into the waking world, rousing, clutching, shaking. He flails, violent and terrified, and Martin says "Whoa, whoa, Jon, it's all right, it's me! It's just me," and catches his wrists until he calms. 

Jon sinks back into the mattress weakly. "Sorry," he says, hoarse. "Thought you were part of the dream."

"Yeah," says Martin. "You had a nightmare, right? You were yelling."

"Did I wake you up?" it suddenly occurs to Jon.

"It's all right." Martin lets go of his hands, sits on the edge of the cranky sofa bed like he's not sure what to do next. "Um, do you want to talk about it?"

"No," says Jon firmly.

"Right. Right. Of course." Another long pause, and then Martin's weight shifts. "So I'll just —"

"Don't go." Jon doesn't even realize he's going to say the words until he's said them.

Martin doesn't seem sure he's heard them properly. "What?" 

"Don't... could you just stay with me a while, please?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure. Um, I'll um, make us some tea?"

Jon knows that isn't what he wants right now, but he doesn't know how to ask for what he does. "Yes," he says quietly. "That would be lovely."

When Martin returns with two steaming mugs, the living room lamp now on and casting a warm glow over Jon's wan pallor, Jon thanks him and holds it between his palms and doesn't drink. "Thank you for waking me," he does say.

"Well." Martin does sip his tea. It's too hot, and he burns his tongue, wrinkles his nose. "You were yelling."

"Yes," says Jon dolorously. "That's new."

"You — don't normally yell?"

"I don't think so." His gaze flicks to Martin. "I've never woken you up before, have I?" 

"N...ooo," agrees Martin slowly. "You haven't. But you've had nightmares like that before?"

Jon's chuckle is harsh and humorless. "I have nightmares every night, Martin."

Martin swallows. "Right. Sorry."

"Why are you apologizing," asks Jon, and it's not particularly nice, giving Martin a bit of a hard time. Martin winces.

"No, I know, it's stupid, I just, didn't know. Sorry - god, now I'm apologizing for apologizing. Just." He puts a hand over his face, bites back yet another apology. 

Jon sighs. Wonders when he started finding Martin's incompetence more charming than annoying, if only slightly. "It's fine, Martin." He sips his tea, remembers belatedly to be grateful for it. When he looks up, Martin is looking at him in a way that — well. It's got a lot of feeling to it, and Jon isn't sure what to do with that, just like he isn't sure if the spread of warmth through his chest is just the tea.

"Jon," says Martin quietly, meaningfully, and Jon sighs again and puts his mug aside.

"Not tonight, please, Martin." He doesn't have a capacity for it. Reaches for him, though, silently, and Martin looks startled but accepts that invitation readily, and Jon finally allows himself the selfishness of pulling Martin into a hug.

"Lie down," whispers Martin, and stays holding him as Jon does, pillowing his head on Martin's chest. Closing his eyes.

"I don't know if I'll be able to fall asleep again," he says drowsily, but he can, it turns out, and he does. When he wakes up in the morning he's alone. A feeling that is disappointing in an unfamiliar way that he's not ready to unpack. 

He isn't sure how long Martin held him, but it's late enough into the morning that he's gone to work. Jon cleans the kitchen with zest and fervor, reordering all the old cans in the pantry, scrubbing out the oven. When he sits down he feels pleasantly tired instead of heavy with sleepiness, the result of hard work instead of hollow-eyed insomnia. It's a good feeling. He'll just have a cup of tea and listen to the tape he was sent, and then he might even be tired enough to manage an afternoon nap.

Statement #0141010...


End file.
